The Grey Beginning, page 9
His face changed pitifully when I rose to go, but he didn’t ask me to stay. “Maybe you can get up tomorrow,” I said. “We might have a game of real football.”
“I can get up now. I am not sick.”
I felt his forehead. “You haven’t got a fever.”
He pressed his face against my palm for a moment, then moved away. “I am not sick. They say I have to rest, but I don’t. Only…only sometimes…I have bad dreams.”
He must have seen from my expression how that hit me. Not only my own nightmares, but the memory of a voice, smooth and trained: “I could be bounded in a nutshell, And count myself a king of ultimate space, Were it not that I have bad dreams….” Bart had always wanted to play Hamlet. What actor doesn’t? And what a gorgeous Prince of Denmark he’d have made in the classic black velvet doublet and tights, with his shock of dark hair and his silver eyes, his high cheekbones and flexible hands.
A small voice stammered, “I said something bad.’’
“No. No, you didn’t.’’ I reached out for him and pulled him close. I needed the warmth, the closeness, as much as he did. “I have bad dreams too, Pete. I know how terrible they can be. But someday they’ll go away. When you lose someone you…you love, at first all you can feel is anger. But it will pass. The hate and the hurt and the bad dreams, all of it.”
As I stumbled through that little speech I knew that Doc Baldwin would have howled with horror at my uneducated attempt at therapy. How dare I meddle with something as deep-rooted and deadly as this child’s sense of loss? Was I naive enough to suppose that my ignorant efforts could help?
Yes, I was. And I think they did help. He wasn’t ready to let go and cry, but he held me tightly for a few seconds. Then he remembered his age and his dignity and pulled away. “It was bad for you, signora? I am sorry.”
“Not as bad as it was for you.” I brushed the tumbled hair from his forehead. “I think you are a very brave person.”
That opened the floodgates. He started to talk, in a queer mixture of English and Italian. I got a picture of a way of life totally alien to me—a lifestyle I thought of as “jet set” or “beautiful people,” for his parents seemed to have traveled constantly, to all the fashionable places. Either there was more money in the family than I supposed, or Mama and Papa had known how to make the most of their income, for Pete made casual mention of maids and tutors and teachers and other luxuries. He had not been left to the care of servants, though. His father had taught him to swim and ski. His mother had taken him to playgrounds and carnivals and zoos. She loved carousels. “Always she rode a white horse. When I was little she took me on the white horse with her. When I was big, I rode another horse, or a lion, or an elephant.”
And he had had a dog. Bruno. His eyes filled when he spoke the name, as they had not for his parents. Seeing his distress I braced myself for the worst; but Bruno had not met a sticky end, he had been left behind when Pete came to Italy.
“Maybe you can have another dog,” I said, knowing how I would have reacted to that idea if I had been in his shoes.
“I don’t want a dog except Bruno. And besides, she would not let me have an animal. Not even a bird.”
I knew who she was.
When the spate of reminiscences finally ran down he looked limp and exhausted. I knew how he felt; I had been in that state a few times myself. But he didn’t look ill. Too thin and too pale, but that was grieving and lack of exercise—mental and physical. Again I prepared to take my leave.
“Tomorrow we’ll have that game,” I said. “I’ll ask your grandmother tonight.”
“O-kay,” he said, brightening.
I went to the door. “Pete,” I said.
“Yes, Signora Kathy?”
“I’m not going to lock the door. Will you stay in your room?”
He thought about it. “If I do not, they will be angry at you?”
I laughed. “Probably.”
“Then I will stay. On the word of a Morandini, I swear!” He sat upright, his eyes flashing.
He looked like Bart. Horribly, dreadfully like him. I forced a smile. “See you tomorrow, Pete. Sleep well—and no bad dreams, right?”
“Right! And you, signora.”
I went to my room. After ten minutes or so I stopped pacing and sat down and gave myself the lecture Pa would have given me. “Damnation if you’re not at it again, rushing in to rescue people who may not need rescuing and may not want to be rescued. You remind me of the Boy Scout dragging the little old lady across the street, and her hitting him with her umbrella because she doesn’t want to cross the damn street! Will you never learn to find out the facts before you act?”
I didn’t think I would ever learn. Pa never had. But Dr. Baldwin and all the other specialists with whom I had worked, at school, would have said the same. Butt out. You may do more harm than good. Stop jumping to conclusions, creating imaginary dramas out of nothing.
The boy had not been physically abused. I had seen that a few times, and the signs are unmistakable. Anyway, I couldn’t imagine Francesca being guilty of that kind of brutality. Her sins would be those of omission and coldness. I tried to see it from her point of view. She too had known grief. She had lost an only son. And into her quiet, ordered life had been thrust a child who was resentful and angry, confused and disturbed. Perhaps she had tried to reach out to him and had been rebuffed. It’s hard to accept that treatment even when you understand the reason for it. Her methods of dealing with the boy were hopelessly wrongheaded, but they were probably well intentioned.
I put on my brown suit when I dressed for dinner. At least it was dignified, and I knew the importance of personal appearance when you are planning to start a fight. I meant to get some plain answers to some plain questions. I would try to keep an open mind, but…
She foiled me again. When I sailed into the ivory-and-gold sitting room, there were guests.
They were a middle-aged couple, Dr. and Mrs. Condotti. He looked like a baby pig, all pink and plump. Wisps of graying hair were brushed carefully across his high forehead. His wife was as thin as he was chubby, with a head of shimmering blond hair that looked like a carved wig.
I had learned that Italians were apt to toss titles like “doctor” and “professor” around rather casually. Dr. Condotti might not have been a medical man. But I thought he was. His wife’s not-so-subtle glances at my stomach were those of middle-aged female curiosity. The doctor’s look had a decidedly professional gleam.
They were a very dull pair. Only Francesca’s smooth hostess manners kept conversation from limping through a long formal meal. Mercifully the Condottis left early. As soon as the door closed behind them, Francesca leaned back in her chair with a sigh. A less inhibited woman would have kicked off her shoes, run her hands through her hair, and let out a loud “Whew!”
“I hope you weren’t too bored,” she said. “The Condottis speak English well, that is why I invited them. They are not intellectuals, however.”
“Not at all,” I said vaguely.
“I must also apologize for leaving you alone all day. Perhaps tomorrow I can show you something of the countryside.”
That gave me my opening. “I promised Pete—Pietro—I would spend part of the day with him.”
She knew I had visited him. There was no surprise in her look, only a level curiosity. “You did not lock his door.”
“No.”
“More coffee?” Her hands were steady as she lifted the heavy silver pot. The fact that she had not called Emilia to perform this task told me she had recognized an unpalatable fact—she was going to have to talk to me.
“No, thank you.” I had thought I was mad enough to speak plainly, but her superb self-possession weakened my resolve. I said hesitantly, “I suppose you think it’s none of my business, but—”
“You teach, I believe.”
I had not told her that. I said, “You had me investigated.”
“Of course. You would have done the same in my position. When I received your letters I did not know Bartolommeo was married. You might have been…anything.”
“Fair enough. But—”
“I learned you were precisely what you claimed to be—Bartolommeo’s legal wife. Therefore you have a position here. No, I do not believe that Pietro’s condition is, as you put it, ‘none of your business.’ I had hoped you would not be moved to interfere, but I see now that you could not act otherwise. The qualities that lead you to do so are the qualities of youth, and I respect them, though I do not admire them.”
I had never been dissected with such cool accuracy, not even by Dr. Baldwin. If she had expressed contempt or anger, I could have responded. Against that dispassionate (and just) assessment I had no defense.
She went on calmly. “You think me harsh in my dealings with the boy. My methods are not yours, and I feel no obligation to defend them. Theories come and go like women’s fashions; the truths you hold today will be tomorrow’s outmoded theories in their turn. To lock a child in his room is not cruel or unusual punishment. But that is not why I lock his door. I do so because he must be confined for his own safety. Twice in the past weeks he has come close to killing himself. There is insanity in the Morandini line. He has the seeds of it. The child is mad.”
Chapter
4
I SAID, “I DON’T BELIEVE IT.”
“What is it you don’t believe? That there is such a thing as hereditary insanity, or that Pietro tried to kill himself?”
“Both. Neither.”
She smiled. Her teeth looked like icicles. “You are candid, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry. You may be telling the truth as you see it, but…You’re wrong, that’s all.”
“My husband died in a hospital in Vicenza,” she said. “He was homicidal and raving mad. His uncle—his grandfather—”
The Gothic atmosphere was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I expected Mrs. Rochester to burst through the door howling curses. “Look,” I said desperately, “I don’t know much about mental illness—you don’t mind if I use that term, I hope, instead of ‘raving mad’? I do know there is no surer way of shattering a child’s mind than telling him he’s doomed to madness.”
“I know that too. If I had not known, the psychiatrist Pietro is seeing—”
“You’re taking him to a psychiatrist?”
Her glacial calm cracked briefly. “I know I am not your idea of a doting grandmother, Kathleen, but neither am I a monster. Will you allow me to tell you what happened without interruptions or emotional outbursts?”
“You’re the one who used the word ‘madness,’” I said. “Talk about emotionally loaded—”
“Touché.” I expected her to show resentment, but the smile she gave me was almost friendly. “I will try to avoid such terms.
“Pietro’s father was my son. My only son. He was always a practical child, intelligent enough, but without a spark of imagination—quite unlike the Morandinis, though I suppose you will frown at that reference to hereditary traits. At any rate, Guido showed some talent for business—investments, that sort of thing. I have never cared for such matters. After matriculating at Bologna he wanted to go to business school. I sent him to Columbia, in the United States. It was there he met his wife. I disapproved of the marriage. I admit it because I am sure you already suspect as much. But my reasons were not what you may suppose. I did not dislike the young woman because she was an American, I disliked her because she was the worst of America—superficial, common, incapable of appreciating another way of life. She was a good wife, however. She accompanied Guido on all his business trips.”
So my image of the frivolous aristocrats jetting around the world had been way off base. It ought to have been a lesson to me.
“It was on one such trip that they were killed,” Francesca went on, without the faintest trace of emotion. “You may have read about the plane crash; it was one of the worst disasters in recent history. The airliner struck a school in a small town in Switzerland. The children were practicing for the Christmas pageant.”
I remembered, of course. The media had not spared their readers and viewers any of the details; there were endless photographs of the agonized parents trying to clear away pieces of twisted metal to reach the bodies of their children. Even Bart’s cultivated cool had been shaken by the story. I remembered his broken exclamations of shock and dismay…. Had he known his cousin was on that plane?
“Pietro had been placed at school in America. Against my wishes, of course. There is no need for me to tell you of the painful weeks following his arrival here—”
“You were named guardian in your son’s will?”
“There was no will. How many healthy young people can admit the possibility of dying?”
The answer came readily, with no change in the eyes fixed steadily on mine; but for the first time I sensed she was equivocating—not lying, exactly, but not telling the whole truth.
I could hardly challenge her, though. I nodded, and after a moment she went on. “I sought psychiatric treatment for him immediately. His behavior was abnormal. Violent explosions of temper, followed by days of sullen silence. For a while he showed signs, however small, of responding to treatment. Then, when he had been here a little over a month, he ran out of his room in the middle of the night. His cries woke me. He was shouting loudly and incoherently, and laughing. By the time I had roused the servants and followed, he had left the house and climbed a tree—one of the big oaks by the gatehouse. I called to him to come down. He said yes, he would come; he would fly. He waved his arms and laughed and shouted, ‘I can do it. I can fly. I will show you.’”
She picked up her embroidery. I said unsteadily, “How did you get him down?”
“We didn’t. Alberto climbed up after him, but when he reached out for the boy, Pietro jumped. He landed in a mass of shrubbery, with only scratches and bruises to show for his adventure.”
I could think of nothing to say. Children do try to commit suicide. Sometimes they succeed. This was worse than I had imagined.
Francesca resumed calmly, “Pietro claimed to have no recollection of the incident. A few weeks ago the second attack occurred. His door was locked—I began locking him in after the first attack. The tuttofare was sleeping in the next room. She was awakened by his screams and came for me. He had broken a mirror. Fragments were all around, and he was beating at the empty frame when I entered. There were bloody footprints across the floor. He had raced back and forth, from door to window to mirror, and had, naturally, cut his feet. If one of the shards had severed an artery, or if he had used his hands instead of a book to break the mirror, he might have bled to death before anyone reached him.
“Now perhaps you understand why I lock the child in his room when there is no one in attendance, and why his activities are so restricted. He goes to Firenze three times a week to a psychiatrist, and he is taking medication.” She paused to set a stitch, delicately and precisely, before adding, “I may as well tell you that the medication is given to him in his food, without his knowledge. He made such a fuss, it became impossible to give it to him openly. I’m sure you disapprove of my methods, Kathleen; but I hope you will do me the courtesy of not questioning my motives.”
II
It took a large dose of Mark Twain to put me to sleep that night, and for once I was thinking of someone else’s problems instead of mine. Maybe that’s why I slept like a log, without dreaming. By the following morning my idiot optimism had reasserted itself. Damn it, I just could not accept Francesca’s diagnosis. I didn’t care if every shrink in Europe and America confirmed it. The child had not demonstrated any symptoms of mental illness before the death of his parents; I felt sure Francesca would have mentioned that, as confirmation of her theory. He was emotionally disturbed—seriously disturbed—I had to admit that much. But a hereditary taint? I felt certain Pete’s doctor didn’t share that medieval belief. At least I hoped he didn’t.
The conversation had cleared up another point I had wondered about. Pietro was the last of the Morandinis—except for the apocryphal embryo Francesca thought I was carrying. No wonder she was so tolerant of my presence and my criticism. I wasn’t just an intrusive distant relative by marriage; I, by God, was the mother of the Heir of the Morandinis—with only a “raving madman” between it and the title.
I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when that occurred to me, and the expression on the face reflected in the mirror was so aghast I couldn’t help smiling. “Cheer up, you damned fool,” I told my reflection. “Of all the messes you have got into—and there have been plenty—this is high on the list.”
I couldn’t hang on to the smile, though; the situation was too serious. I had a nasty suspicion I knew what Francesca was working up to. Oddly enough, our last conversation had given me a grudging respect for the woman. I honestly believed she was doing her best. Her best wasn’t good enough, by a long shot, but that was a weakness, not a crime. She had a number of weaknesses, not of character but of prejudice and ignorance. She was intelligent but insensitive, subtle but not complex. Once you identified the basic beliefs that governed her behavior, you could understand, and even predict, what she was going to do. I was as certain of her intentions as if she had told me point-blank.
She wanted me to stay on. She wanted the Heir of the Morandinis born in the family mansion, under her matriarchal eye. If it turned out to be a girl, or a “raving madman,” it and I could go to hell, or anywhere else we wanted to go. If it was what she hoped, then she’d start the next phase of the campaign. It would be a campaign of indirection and suggestion rather than command; she knew by now that I was not easily bullied, and of course the very idea of physical coercion was absurd in this day and age. Her methods would be more subtle: Join the gentry, enjoy a life of ease, servants to wait on you, no need to work for a living. Now she had another way of pressuring me—the boy. If I stayed, I might be able to help him.
The mirrored face was decidedly glum. It had a horrible premonition of what I was planning to do.
